Trip and Fall
by Readwriteedit
Summary: She hasn't seen him in nearly two years when he calls her up out of the blue, asking to come visit. She'd be lying if she doesn't smile every time she thinks about him coming such a long way just to see her. SPOILERS for TPIS. Light T for some miscommunication. (Note: I don't own anything.)
1. Chapter 1

She hasn't seen him in nearly two years when he calls her up out of the blue, asking to come visit.

There's a little part of her that's confused-two years is a long time-but most of her is just relieved. If she's being honest, she's been feeling a bit neglected.

She's heard from Jane and Batty that he'd visited Cameron for Thanksgiving, President's Day, and a handful of other minute holidays which she neglected to show up for during the last two years.

California is a long way from Massachusetts, and she'd be lying if she doesn't smile every time she thinks about him coming such a long way just to _see her_.

_Of course_, she tells him. _Of course, I'd like you to come visit._ But there are a million other things she wants to add to that simple sentence. _I've _always_ wanted you to come visit. I never wanted to end what we had. Why haven't you come before now?_ And, perhaps most imperative: _Why now?_

Why now, indeed. Why now, during finals week, when the last thing in the world she needs to be focusing on is reinforcing a dying friendship? Why now, when all she's been able to think about for the entire semester is how she wishes she hadn't been such an idiot in high school, turning you away without putting in place any precautionary measures to keep you in her life?

But she sticks to a simple, "Of course," and three days later she's sitting at the baggage claim at LAX, trying to convince herself that she isn't anxious.

All of her carefully constructed arguments fly out of her head, however, at sight of a brown-haired boy stepping off the escalator. It may have been two years since she's seen him last, but she would recognize him anywhere.

Resisting the inexplicable urge to run and tackle him to the ground, she begins to walk over to him, plastering what she hopes is a calm and happy smile on her face.

It seems to take him a second to recognize her, doing a double take as she walks up to him.

"Skye?" His voice is deeper than it was when she saw him last, and-good God-is he tall!

"No, sorry," she replies looking him right in the eye, and trying not to smile.

He looks at her for a second longer, before grabbing her and pulling her into a warm hug that makes her melt more than she would like to admit.

"I can't believe it's you!" He breathes in amazement, squeezing her tightly enough that she begins to think he'll break a few of her ribs before releasing her with a grin. "You look fantastic!"

"Thanks," she replies, ignoring the warmth that floods her under his gaze with a vicious determination. "You don't look so bad yourself. From the family's reports, I was expecting you to be a bit more malnourished and overworked."

"You're the one who everyone fears is going to be malnourished. Have you learned to boil water yet?"

She just smiles, ignoring the question, (to which the answer is an unfortunate "no") and grabs his duffle off of the carousel.

"We'd better get going if we're going to make it back to Pasadena before rush-hour."

Turns out they're already a little late for that, and what would normally be a 30 minute drive back to Cal Tech takes them two and a half hours of conversation.

She learns that his mother and the new Dexter replacement took off for Europe again last summer, and took him with them, much to his chagrin. But he liked Rome (fantastic architecture) and Paris (great food) and London (lots of smog and horrible food, but great accents). He says that they should go together one day, to which she just laughs. She can barely afford groceries at the moment; the European Grand Tour is going to have to wait.

And then they get to the topic of school, and she watches as he lights up, going on and on about Berklee College of Music, and Jazz, and some girl named Alissa who "makes the piano come alive," and her heart constrict just a tiny bit. She's taken back to that first summer at Aundrel by the glow in his eyes, the happiness radiating from him.

But then he asks about her, and she bores him with details of Advanced Non-Euclidean Geometry (which absolutely deserves capitalization) and accretion disks, and her internship at the Jet Propulsion Lab.

By the time they finally reach his hotel, her cheek muscles hurt from smiling, and she can't remember the last time she was this elated. He just stares at her for a long moment, before opening the car door. He starts to get out, but then stops, and turns back to her.

"How about dinner?"

She knows she's blushing when she agrees.


	2. Chapter 2

Her two conditions for dinner are no long drives and no atmosphere.

Not quite knowing how to search for that on Yelp! they finally hand her old clunker over to a very unimpressed valet, and head into the lobby to ask the concierge.

The lobby alone is magnificent, and she's smacked in the face once again by just how different her and Jeffrey's circles are.

But then the concierge curls his lip up at their request, suggesting that maybe they'd liked to try the hotel restaurant, and one sudden craving comes to mind.

"Excuse me, do they serve pizza?"

They nearly send the poor man into apoplectic shock, but 20 minutes later they are sitting in the fanciest dining room in Pasadena, ignoring the ambiance and stuffing their faces with gourmet pizza.

It takes them two whole pies before they've slowed down enough to hold a conversation.

It feels funny asking him how _her_ family is, but she hasn't seen them since Christmas, and it seems like a logical question to ask. He's gracious about it, not rubbing it in her face that he's taken her seat at the kitchen table, and her role as TV remote possessor.

"I really wanted to make it home for Spring Break," she confesses. "But the funding didn't appear . . ."

"Oh, you missed a fun one. Eight nauseous people makes for a great vacation . . ."

"Well, I should amend my statement: I really wanted to make it home for Spring Break before I heard about the Great Stomach Flu Epidemic of Gardam Street."

He smiles. "I'd say you got lucky. How did you spend your break, incidentally?"

"I worked at the Mt. Wilson observatory, helping to digitalize all their old paper files."

"That sounds like fun."

She ignores the sarcasm in his voice and pulls up a picture on her phone. "I got to sit in Einstein's chair!"

His eyes widen appreciatively. "I guess that makes it worth while then, huh?"

He eats another piece of pizza before speaking again.

"That reminds me! You'd be very proud, Skye: I took Physics this semester."

"Good for you, Jeffrey! How'd you do?"

"I got a _very_ low A."

"Did you like it?"

"Um, yeah, it was interesting. Hard, though."

She nods, smiling at him with a new expression on her face. Almost pride, he would have to say. But then she bites her lip, and glances down at her plate.

"Jeffrey, I have a confession to make . . ."

"You still haven't learned how to boil water?" he ventures a guess with a smile.

"Well, no, but that wasn't the confession." Her next sentence is so mumbled that he has to ask her to repeat it. Twice.

Finally, she looks him in the eye and announces that she's "failing music appreciation," after which he stares at her in awe-trying not to laugh-for a good 30 seconds.

"I'm not quite sure what's more shocking here, Skye; that anyone could be _failing music appreciation_, or that you actually deigned to _take_ it!"

"Well, it was that or a performing art . . ."

"You mean you didn't want to take acting? I'm shocked . . ." He leans over the table, conspiringly. "Are you really failing?"

She winces, admitting that she's currently getting a B-"Bs can't be classified as failing, Skye."-but that it's her last final of the semester at 8 o'clock tomorrow morning, and she has no plans for studying a bunch of noises when she could be hanging out with him instead.

The minute she says that, she regrets it, because he get's a funny gleam in his eye, waves the waiter over, pays for dinner, and stands up.

"Come on, Skye. Can you use the music room after hours?"

"Um, yes, but I don't really want to. Why do you ask?"

He just smiles, grabbing her by the wrist and pulling her out of the hotel. "You're going to pass that test, Skye, if it's the last thing I do. There is no way I could have my best friend fail music appreciation. It would look bad!"

* * *

30 minutes later, armed to the teeth with textbooks, sheet music, poster board, and markers, they sneak into the music room, fumbling to find the light switches.

As the room is filled with florescent light, Jeffrey directs her to drop all the paper on the floor next to the surprisingly nice grand piano, and sits down on the bench.

The rest of the night is spent making timelines and diagrams and her listening to him play every song ever written, while trying desperately to identify at least one or two.

1 o'clock in the morning finds her at the vending machine for the fifth time that evening, buying yet another round of Red Bulls and powdered donuts.

5 o'clock finds her laying on her back on top of the piano, trying not to dose off as Jeffrey plays one song after another, and being pleasantly surprised when she can recognize "As Time Goes By," from _Casablanca_. It helps that she's seen the movie.

By the time 7 o'clock rolls around, the sun is starting to peak through the windows and she and Jeffrey are each on their 12th Red Bull. She's sitting on the piano bench, leaning her head against his shoulder while he lethargically moves his fingers over the keys in some semblance of a song while trying to explain how not only is music like math, but also like physics, because of something to do with harmonics and resonance.

She tries to tell him that she's studying _astro_physics, and that there can be no sound in the vacuum of space, but he trudges on anyways, until she finally resorts to poking him in the ribs as a desperate attempt to get him to shut up. He pokes her back, and it escalates from there.

She thinks it must be the Red Bull, but she's giggling even before the tickling begins, and then suddenly they've ran out of bench and _smack!_ she's on the floor with him pancaked on top of her.

She's laying in a pile of charts and sheet music, tears running down her face as she gasps for him to stop tickling her, and apparently that's too much for his next-to-nothing restraint, because before she can logically stop him, he's leaning down and kissing her.

And she's kissing back.

He's being careful with her, not pushing, just pressing his lips to hers, which she appreciates. He pulls back for a second, as if to give her time to yell at him, but when no argument ensues he falls into her again.

She blames it on the fact that she was already punchy to begin with, but it seems as if the entire world is inverting itself around them, and so she gives up and closes her eyes, kissing him back with all she has and trying not to think about what this could be doing to their already fragile friendship.

She's not sure how long they've been rolling around in sheet music when the janitor shows up. All she knows is that there's a little part of her that whimpers to have to let go of him.

* * *

_Guest: My uncle works for the publisher, and so I have privileges. :-P You can hate me now . . . ;-)_


	3. Chapter 3

She can tell he's trying not to laugh as they make their way back to her (thankfully abandoned) dorm room, but she's still beet red with humiliation and holds up a hand the minute he starts to open his mouth.

"Don't say a word."

"I was just going to-"

"Not. a. word, Jeffrey Tifton."

He locks his lips and throws away the key, a stupid elementary school promise that makes her roll her eyes. But then he reaches over and weaves her fingers through his own.

She would yell at him if it didn't feel so nice and warm.

The dorm is practically empty, partly because of the time, and partly because most of the student body is already gone for the summer. The few students who are milling about are as exhausted as they are, and pay no attention to the fact that she's bringing a guy into the all-girls wing. Still, she's relieved when they reach her room and she can shove him safely out of sight.

"Stay," she instructs as she grabs her things and heads down the hall to the shower.

He's more than willing to comply, and when she get's back a few minutes later he's collapsed onto her bed, staring up at the ceiling.

"Nice stars."

She glances up at the glow-in-the-dark constellations he's admiring and smiles at the memory. "Thanks. I almost got expelled for putting those up. The dean's never forgiven me."

They spend the remaining few minutes before Zero Hour going over her carefully measured timeline of artists while he taps different tuning forks to try to get her to "hear the harmonics."

By taciturn agreement they don't talk about the incident in the music room, having both decided that was a conversation best left until the semester was over. 2 hours, 13 minutes and counting.

* * *

She's pretty sure she fails the test anyway, in spite-or maybe because of-their all-night cramming session. She feels more prepared than she has all semester, but when she walks into the music room she is flooded with pesky images of Jeffrey (_Jeffrey!_) kissing her, and any basic grasp of appreciation for music is shoved out of view.

But regardless of the outcome, she's smiling in that happy, warm, thank-God-finals-are-over way when she gets back to the dorm, content to fall onto the bed next to a softly-snoring Jeffrey and sleep until she can sleep no more.

* * *

She's awakened who knows how many hours later by her cell phone buzzing on the night stand. Blindly fumbling for it without opening her eyes to the brightness that is reality, she pulls it to her ear, mumbling an incoherent hello.

She thinks it's Rosy on the other end of the line, asking how the test went, but she isn't entirely sure. Implementing standard termination-of-phone call procedure, she answers vaguely and is about to ask that whoever is on the phone call back once she's no longer in danger of becoming a zombie, but then Jeffrey rolls over and stretches out, and she has to shove him out of the way.

"Move over, you're hogging the bed."

Rosy's tone finally forces her eyes to open, as her far-too-motherly older sister asks, "Skye, who is in your bed?"

She is fully backing the theory that mouths aren't connected to brains by the time her's responds with a sleepy yawn and, "Jeffrey."

When a scandalized Rosy demands to talk to the man in question, she just shoves the phone into his face and rolls over. Jeffrey, on the other hand, shoots up into a sitting position and holds the screaming phone away from his ear, wincing in pain.

It takes several minutes and numerous "it's not like that, Rosy"s before he finally is able to hang up the phone and fall back onto the bed, groaning.

She bursts out laughing at the woeful looks he's giving her, telling him to cheer up: at least it wasn't her dad who had called.

When the laughter finally abides, there is a minute or two of silence before she props her head up on her hand, looks him straight in the eye, and announces, "We need to talk."

He takes a deep breath, and then nods, waiting for her to begin with the tirade. But it never comes.

Instead, she bites her lip and orders him to start.

"You kissed back," is the first thing that comes to mind, to which she blushes heartily and winces.

"Uh, yeah . . ."

"Why?"

She could blame it on the Red Bull, she could blame it on the sleep deprivation, both of which were reasonable excuses. But somewhere in between Vivaldi and Cole Porter she had been forced to acknowledge that he was "De-Lovely" and that she couldn't imagine never kissing him again.

"Because I wanted to."

To his credit, he takes it well. He doesn't jump out of bed and start cheering, he doesn't attack her with kisses. He just nods and asks, "And now?"

"I still want to . . ."

Now his face lights up, and this time she's the one who can't resist kissing him, rolling over so her blonde hair curtains around them as she kisses him with every fiber of her being.

When the need for oxygen finally forces them apart, he pulls her into a hug, burying his face into her hair saying silent prayers of "Thank you" to whoever will listen. And then a shaky, disbelieving laugh ruffles her hair, as he murmurs in awe, "I finally wore you down . . ."

"I'm glad you did," she responds, softly. "Jeffrey, I'm so sorry about these past few years. I was just so paranoid about wrecking our friendship that I didn't want to take any chances."

"What changed?"

"Well, I realized that if you were going to wreck it anyway, I might as well get to enjoy it."

He's wary when he tells her, "I love you, Skye."

She's scared to death as she responds, "I know . . . I think I might love you, too."

He's grinning, squeezing her in such tight a hug that she's on the verge of bruising, when he whispers in her ear, "Let's just not tell Rosy quite yet, okay?"

**(Fine.)**

* * *

_For more stories, click on "Readwriteedit."_


End file.
